by Courtney Lux
Scarlett can usually smack us all into some sort of action when she needs to, but mostly she just kept looking out the window toward the blizzard outside and shouted at all of us to stop looking at her. I think the storm made her nervous and us watching her just made it worse.
I thought about being a good distraction and telling her about how I came to be on that same day nineteen years earlier. I could have told her about the church and Pastor Welk and my mama and all my brothers. I like to talk. I can talk for hours, but not about me. Not about Bekket or Mama or Daddy or the boys or the business or any of it, and I wasn’t ready to start gabbing about it then just because it was the coldest fuckin’ December we’d ever had and Scarlett was in labor and I wanted to feel like I was doing something more useful than shivering on the couch and watching her pace.
When Jude finally broke character long enough to tell her she was being stupid and we had to go to the hospital, she wasn’t having any of it. Told him we had to wait. Had to be patient and just fuckin’ wait one more minute. I don’t know what we were supposed to be waiting for. The storm sure as hell wasn’t about to let up and none of us know who June Noelle’s daddy is. Scarlett doesn’t believe in wasting time on bad men, so she drops boyfriends just about as quick as she picks them up and she doesn’t bring many of them around. My money’s on the doorman from Harlem… Jose or Jorge or something like that. Whoever it is, Scarlett’s not interested in him being in the picture, so Lord knows we weren’t waiting on him. The more I think about it and the more nights I hear Scarlett out in the main room walking with the baby or checking to make sure she’s breathing or feeding her or just talking to her, the more I think maybe she just wanted one more minute to herself, one more minute before she had to give herself over to this other little person. I could be wrong about that, but whatever her reason was, we let her be.
Scarlett just about wore a hole in the floor with all her walking until finally her minute was up and her water broke all over Liam’s salvage art project that’s been taking up the left side of the family room for months now. I’d have just about died laughing if Scarlett hadn’t looked so damn scared. Scarlett never looks scared. So instead of laughing, I punched Liam in the gut for hollering about his stupid fuckin’ statue, then me and Devon hauled Scarlett off to the hospital. Not sure why I agreed to go. I hate hospitals and I can still smell that place like it worked its way up my nose and just decided to stay there.
Not only did I pony up and take that girl to the hospital, but somehow I managed to get saddled with holding Scarlett’s hand in the delivery room while a nurse kept telling me to tell Scarlett to breathe. I had no business being in that goddamn room, but there I was, getting a talking-to from an irritated nurse about helping out my girlfriend and being “emotionally supportive.” We didn’t bother correcting her or mentioning we were doing the best we could with the whole breathing thing. We breathed and breathed and breathed. I dripped snow all over the place. Scarlett just about broke my hand into a thousand pieces when the nurse said to push, and then all of a sudden we had June Noelle Holliday.
Let me tell you, babies are not all that cute-looking when they come out. They holler their tiny heads off and they’re a bloody, wet mess, but hell, was she an amazing sight. I think if I still believed in miracles, I’d have believed in them then because I still can’t wrap my head around how incredible it was that I’d just seen a whole other person come into the world.
Scarlett says she named the baby after her dead mama. I still think it’s because we’re all so sick of winter already that we’re just about willing to make a crossroads deal for some sunshine. That and seeing Scarlett look at that little girl for the first time, you’d think someone had put summer right there in her arms for real, she was so happy.
I keep thinking about that. About the way Scarlett looks at Junie like she’s summer and sun and everything good in the world. Maybe some ladies are just meant to be mamas and others aren’t, or maybe some babies are just easier to love; something in their chemistry makes them something a mama wants to hold onto. I don’t know. I don’t know a whole lot of babies or a whole lot of mamas, so I don’t have much in the way of experience with either of them, but that question’s dug its way into me just like the smell of the hospital, and I can’t shake it.
Whether Scarlett got a good baby or June got a good mama, I’m not sure. They both seem pretty damn good to me, and I’m grateful for it, for June’s sake at least. I don’t know where you run away to when you’re already in New York City.
three.
Trip is tired and starving. He’s always so goddamn hungry. He doesn’t have anything in the way of groceries, and he’s not particularly interested in getting out from under the covers, so he stays where he is, listening to the noise of the apartment.
It’s always loud here. Trip loves the noise. He’s never lived someplace quiet, and it might make him crazy to listen to all that silence. This morning, though, the noise grates on his nerves. He’s got a headache and his joints ache in a way they probably shouldn’t when he hasn’t even hit twenty yet. Still, he stays where he is and listens. There’s the usual constant hum of the washing machines from the laundromat downstairs; Liam is hammering away at something out in the main room; Jude’s running lines in the shower; and Scarlett’s shouting over the baby’s cries. Devon’s violin is missing from the usual hum of activity, but he might not be at home. Trip blinks in the dark and wonders absently what time it is.
His room is not a real bedroom, not exactly. His bed is an egg crate folded in half on the floor of the walk-in closet, a couple blankets thrown over the top that scratch at his skin and a pillow that smells like too much Downy. There are a couple rickety shelves, three abandoned wire hangers he’s never bothered to hang anything from and a pull-cord light above him with a fresh bulb that cost him a whole $2.79. He chose this space because it stays dark in the mornings and warmer in the winter than the drafty bedroom it’s attached to. It gets horrendously hot in the summer, but the first few days of September have been unseasonably cool and have dropped the temperature at night enough that Trip can close the door again when he wants to. He’d almost be grateful for a little July heat. He’s used to sweating, but he’s never fully adjusted to the cold.
Suddenly, the sound of the door grating open against the floor is loud in Trip’s ears and he’s bathed in light. He groans. “What’s your fucking problem?”
Scarlett settles down on the floor and lowers a mug beside his shoulder. Even with the baby wailing in her arms, her voice is clear and calm. “I made coffee and saved you some. You’re welcome.”
Trip peeks out from under his pillow. “What’s the catch?”
“Why do you always think everything has a catch?” She bounces the baby on her lap until she settles down.
“Because there always is a catch.” Trip shifts the pillow back under his cheek so he can see her more fully.
During the daytime hours, Scarlett doesn’t usually bother with makeup and throws all of her dark curls into a ponytail, but today, mascaraed lashes frame her brown eyes, her cheeks are dusted a soft pink and her hair’s washed and dried and flowing around her shoulders. She’s dressed in her gray jacket and the jeans without the hole in the knee and a pair of black pumps that are more Sharpie fill-in for the nicks than actual black material. “You have a job interview.”
“Smart little mind-reader.” Scarlett nudges the coffee mug closer. “Drink that before it gets even colder.”
“Still waiting for you to tell me what it is you want.” Trip fixes her with a look.
She hesitates. “I need you to take the baby for the day.”
Trip huffs out an irritated breath. “It’s not my turn.”
She groans and nudges him with her foot. “Come on, I’m begging you.”
“No way. Nope. Nuh-uh.”
Scarlett’s expression goes immediately dark. She’s always been
good at that. Scarlett’s sweet and funny and good for a dirty joke, but when she means business, she can switch from sweet as sugar to cold as ice in under a second and she’s proven on more than one occasion she can kick ass when there’s a need for it.
None of that fazes Trip. He returns the look. “Goddammit, Scarlett, get someone else to do it. I’ve got things to do.”
“No, I have things to do. You just want the option to disappear for an afternoon for a quick fuck and a free meal,” she snaps back.
He reaches for his jeans crumpled in the corner of the closet and drawls, “What’re you out doing every night then, honey?”
It’s not a fair thing to say, and he knows it. First off, Scarlett’s a stripper, not a prostitute—he’s the one willing to get on his knees if it means a quick twenty or a free meal. And second, the tips are damn good—a hell of a lot better than what the waitressing job paid her before they fired her on account of being overstaffed (or that’s the reason they gave her, anyway). And third, it’s not as if she has the option of just looking out for herself with what she can scrape together from a few odd jobs. Scarlett knows all of this and knows Trip knows it, too. She asks for no apology, just stares at Trip cold and flat, waiting.
He groans as he wriggles into his jeans. He takes the coffee cup in his right hand, holds out his left toward the baby. “Give it here.”
Scarlett’s expression goes from stormy to beatific immediately as she tucks the baby onto Trip’s lap. She kisses June and tugs a lock of Trip’s hair. “I love you.”
“We’re slightly resentful of you.” Trip grumbles back. He sips at his coffee. It’s watery and cold and he’s endlessly grateful for it.
“Don’t say that.” She squeezes June’s fisted little hand against her palm. “You think she might be?”
He grits his teeth against saying something nasty. “You weren’t nearly such a sap before the baby.”
“They change things.” Scarlett runs a hand through her baby’s hair, her expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and affection. “Babies change absolutely everything.”
“Wow, glad I won’t be having any to fuck with my schedule then.” Trip scowls at her.
“I took in a baby when I didn’t have to once, you know.” She fixes him with a look. She’s barely four years older than him, yet even before the more recent days of formula and Pampers and obligatory sleepless nights soothing a fussing infant, Scarlett had chosen to play mother to Trip when she could. She’d taken both him and Liam in, fed them occasional bowls of ramen and generic macaroni and cheese if tips were good, and spotted Trip on more than one occasion when he was short on rent. Scarlett’s kind to all of them, but she’s always been especially nice to Trip. She says she’s not sure if she’s got a soft spot for him because he’s the baby of the apartment by a couple years, or if it’s more to do with the accent and his funny stray-dog mismatched eyes.
“Jesus, woman, cut the guilt trip.” Trip rolls his eyes. “I took her, didn’t I?”
She pinches Trip’s cheek. “Yes, you did. Thanks.”
Trip slaps her hand away. “What’s the job?”
“Barista near Wall Street.” She pushes herself to her feet, leans in the doorway. “I figure if I don’t get it, I can at least pick up an investment banker boyfriend or something.”
“Dream big, sugar.” Trip yawns.
Scarlett crouches to give the baby one last kiss and to shoot Trip a look. She pushes the cell phone toward him. “You know the rules.”
“No smoking, no calls except for emergencies and no taking the baby along if I meet someone.” Trip pockets the phone. “Yes, ma’am, I know the goddamn rules. It’d be a real shame if I broke one and wasn’t allowed to get saddled with the kid anymore, huh?”
Scarlett leans out the door. Her eyes dart around the family room before she looks back at Trip. She drops her voice lower. “And no leaving her with Dev.”
“What’s the matter with Dev?” Trip frowns at her. “He sick?”
“Keep your voice down.” Scarlett glances back out the open door. “You know as well as I do something’s going on with him.”
“He’s fine,” Trip says. Devon loves Junie. He was the fourth person to hold her after the nurse and Scarlett and Trip. He’s fed her, held her and played lullabies for her on his violin her entire life. As far as Trip’s concerned, there’s no reason for that to change now.
“I don’t trust him with the baby, all right?” Scarlett’s expression goes anxious. “Please, Trip. Just promise me.”
Trip shifts the baby from one leg to the other when she crabs at him. “Fine, whatever. I’ll sock him if he gets close to her.”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m being crazy.” She tugs his hair before standing again.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Trip scratches his cheek against his shoulder. “When you gonna be back?”
“Sometime this afternoon.” Scarlett drags a hand through her hair and twists it into a ponytail. Trip recognizes it as her go-to stressed out move; the higher the ponytail, the higher the stress level. Right now, it’s at the nape of her neck. “If it doesn’t go well, I might try some other places and see what I can find.”
“Could just sell Junie to some sad infertile rich people on the West Side.” Trip lets June off his lap to crawl around the little space of his room. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sugar? Some nice, rich Republicans to dress you up and make them feel accepting of semi-diverse babies? They’ll probably rename you Georgia or India or somethin’, but that’s a worthwhile trade for the silver spoon as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re not funny, Morgan.”
“I’m hilarious and you’re gonna be late. Get out of here before I change my mind and June’s going with you.”
“Fuck, you’re right.” Scarlett stands and disappears. She’s always doing that—taking her sweet time and then all of the sudden she’s a hurricane of activity. The door scrapes against the floor. “Bye, darlings! I’ll see you later. Thank you, Trip!”
June notes her disappearance and crawls toward the door, already wailing.
Trip grimaces and pulls the baby back onto his lap. “Aw, come on, you know I hate that.”
She struggles in his arms and howls even louder.
“Good Lord.” Trip releases her just long enough to drag his bag closer. “Hey now, come on and look here, what do we have?”
June goes quieter when Trip unzips the bag, quieter still when he rifles through its contents. He doesn’t have much in the way of baby-safe items. He’s stolen a rattle or two off strollers over the course of the year, but those things only stay in his bag until he can get them home to June. In the end, he finds nothing he isn’t nervous might choke an infant, so he zips his bag back up and just shoves the whole thing toward June. “Have at it, cricket.”
June is content to pick at the duct tape and teethe on the handles of the bag, so Trip sits back against the wall to nurse his cold coffee. Not for the first time, he longs for a cup as earthy and strong and hot as the one Nate bought him earlier in the week.
He’s thought about Nate at random intervals since that day, bemused by the sullen, serious stranger. Nate was all storm clouds and frustration with the only traces of his smiling, suntanned youth showing when he’d laughed. Trip had liked his laugh and even liked his nervous babbling. He’s not sure why he let him just leave, why he didn’t request an address or a phone number, or, more to his usual style, just decided to get in the cab without asking.
He could blame it on needing to get back to the apartment before Liam decided to skin him alive, but that would be a lie. Liam could never beat him in a fight, and it’s not as if his sulking has ever bothered Trip all that much. He’s fairly certain it’s the umbrella’s fault. Nate had so willingly and suddenly handed off that small treasure, it struck Trip dumb and made him forget himself. Despite
Nate’s willingly offered gift, Trip hadn’t been able to resist his usual temptation.
Nate’s pockets hadn’t proven all that interesting, so all Trip has from him is a business card. It’s a nice card as far as Trip can tell. It’s eggshell-white, matte. There’s a logo for Ashbury-Whiteman Investment Banking in the corner, a phone number, an address, “Nate Mackey” printed in all caps in the center, a smaller blurb of italicized text below his name informing Trip that Nate’s a financial analyst. Trip keeps it in the Ziploc with the photo.
He can’t make sense of this mirthful, vibrant little boy and this dreary twenty-something Wall Street drone. Sure, things happen, people grow up—Trip knows that better than anyone—but there’s something disconnected, something stormier in Nate. That’s a feeling Trip knows even better. He’d kissed Nate partly just to see what he’d do, and partly because he just couldn’t stand how lonely he’d looked standing there in front of an open cab door.
June’s lost interest in his bag and crawled from the closet out to the bedroom, so, with a heavy sigh and popping knees, Trip stands to follow her, empty mug in hand.
Their apartment is small, and it’s seen better days. For as long as Trip has lived here, the walls have been smudged with fingerprints and cracks; the baseboards are perpetually dirty with years of grime that not even the best cleaning will remove. The wood floors are nicked and gapping in places. The far end of the family room is packed tight with a floral patterned couch commandeered from a distant relative of Jude’s and a coffee table that Devon picked up on a street corner. The table doesn’t sit straight and they have replaced one particularly rickety leg with a cinderblock and a stack of old magazines. Most of the room is taken up by Liam’s art projects: a jumble of statues, installations and half-finished canvases. Liam practices every art form he can, and every project accrues in the far-left corner near the door leading to Liam, Devon and Jude’s bedroom and spreads out like ivy over the family room.